


Porthos: the Incident Involving the Flower

by watercrescent



Category: d'Artagnan Romances (Three Musketeers Series) - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-26 04:43:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/646684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/watercrescent/pseuds/watercrescent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Size: ~15,000 words</p>
<p>Plot: This story follows Porthos, and can be considered a side adventure, where he receives an assignment from Treville and two vague clues, which he follows towards swordplay and sexplay.  D'Artagnan appears in part 2, if you care to continue reading.  Many characters are fictional, or more specifically are historical figures portrayed inaccurately.  </p>
<p>Other: I put this together as a writing exercise, since I haven't written anything in years and needed to brush up on some fairly basic skills.  I'm just glad right now that I was able to put together something comprehensive, even if writing is still torture.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

PART I: UN PEU DE PORTHOS

 

Chapter 1: Morning Rituals

 

He woke the way he always did, with a hand around his hilt, and the other around his cock, his instincts towards preservation and procreation pulling in equal measure. Twenty minutes later, his cock spent and his hilt bridled, our heroic fornicator, Porthos, the future Baron du Vallon de Bracieux de Pierrefonds, alighted from his bed. 

From the vantage point of his window, he could see that the day was already half way spent. What had he done the previous day? He tried to recall, but his mind, never his greatest asset even in the best of times, seemed determined to elude him. He cast an auspicious eye about the room, revealing a battle ax, a woman’s shoe, a torn corset, a man’s torn trousers, a mewing cat, and a cape made entirely of feathers. Putting these clues together would logically lead him to believe…but a discrete knock saved him from further reverie, and a letter slid smoothly under his door, the Captain’s seal unmistakable on its face: it appeared that he was being summoned.

 

Chapter 2: The Assignment

 

Upon arriving at M. Treville's apartments, our hero found the Captain’s form silhouetted against the open window, and from this vantage point, Porthos found it difficult if not impossible to read the M.’s facial expression.

 

“Porthos," the Captain began, his posture assuming a pose of poise and calm.

 

"Sir."

 

"I have an assignment for you."

 

"And I accept it." The Captain’s figure appeared to tense.

 

"Please do not accept until I have completed assigning you your task. I want your full understanding before your acceptance. We have discussed this."

 

"But I accept it."

 

The Captain's shadow reacted in an irritated series of movements. "Listen first. This assignment is a delicate matter-"

 

"Then I am not suited for it."

 

"No, it is delicate...but I have given it a great deal of thought, and your particular strengths...are perfectly suited for this matter." And with that statement, the Captain's face emerged from the shadows to cast Porthos a look of Pointed Significance, which was completely lost on our Hero.

 

The remainder of the Captain appeared from the shadows.

 

"What I mean to say is...this assigns would take place in a domain within which I am sure you are already quite familiar..." Again, the Captain cast a Significant Look towards our Hero, which again went completely over his head. The Captain sighed.

 

"Nevermind. I have an assignment for you-"

 

"And I accept." A facial tick began to pulse in the Captain’s left cheek, a fact which both parties pointedly ignored.

 

"We are searching for an underground group of anarchists,” the Captain continued. “This is a young group, not completely organized, but we believe that they have the potential to become something much more dangerous. We want to locate key members, to extract information, and then to stamp them out before they fully form. Is this clear?"

 

"Perfectly. Where should I begin searching?"

 

"I have only two key pieces of information: the sign by which they recognize one another is that of a small flower, and an address. I have written them down for you." Handing our Hero a small piece of paper, the noble Captain dismissed him with a wave. Standing outside the Captains quarters, Porthos reviewed the note. On one side was a drawing of a small non-descript flower comprised of five symmetrical petals. On the other side was written an address. It appeared vaguely familiar, which meant either of two things, it was either a tavern or a whorehouse.

 

Chapter 3: Tavern or Whorehouse

 

Porthos approached the house directly, without guile or caution. First, he passed directly across its face. Then, at a second pass, he attempted to slow to a more leisurely pace. Both these stratagems yielded nothing. The exterior was entirely nondescript.

 

There was no marking on the outside face or on the door. The building appeared clean, even respectable. There was not even a slow but steady trickle of reprobates milling around and about to showcase its contents. Even when, upon applying his hand to knock on the door, a small window opened to review him, and he could feel eyes move up and down his person, could he entertain any suspicion. He knew how he appeared: eyes fat from smiling, face pleated from laughing, built as wide as he was tall, and with an expression that suggested pleasantry without guile. It was the same face and form that greeted him every morning, which was being appreciated now. He had no second nature, had never understood the need for such pretense, and presented the same face and form to all admirers, whether friend, foe, or Death.

 

The door opened to reveal a small sparrow of a woman whose face he would immediately forget. She gestured for him to follow her inside, and so he did. Inside her sparrow quarters, there were few indications that this was her home. He noted a spare table without an accompanying chair, and an empty room further behind. She led him deeper into the residing hallway, and then around into another corridor, and on they went until he began to hear something that sounded vaguely like music. There were no markings on the walls, but Porthos could feel that they were walking on an almost imperceptible descent. What this indicated, however, he had no idea. Farther along, he could distinguish that what he had heard previously had indeed been music, but more importantly, he began to hear voices accompanying the music, then movement, and finally a light reaching out from an open doorway. Without a word, the sparrow moved aside to allow him to pass before retreating, first from his sight, and then from his memory.

 

Chapter 4: The Flower

 

Porthos entered, and immediately felt...at home. From the entrance, he could see an open blaze reaching out from fire pit set into the floor. The light cast was strong enough to suffuse the entire room with color and heat. There were musicians playing furiously at the far end of the room, and their music reached out to mix with voices, creating a continuous hum that was not altogether unpleasant. Through the licking flames, Porthos could see that in every naked space and bare corner were cavorting bodies, dripping mouths, and gyrating women, and everyone was beautifully, magnificently drunk. It was simultaneously too disgusting and too wonderful to bear. He was at once hit by the full force of his own sobriety. Around him, music was playing in full force, couples were swaying in disarming states of undress, orifices were being openly violated at every opportunity, and Mon Dieu, he was dead sober. This was entirely unacceptable, he thought, and commenced debauching.

 

A flagon of wine found its way into his hand. He drank it. Nothing had ever tasted richer or sweeter. A second joined it. Our Hero, dedicated to his investigation, finished a third bottle until the world began, pleasantly, to spin. He could feel the bodies undulating around him like extensions of himself. And somehow the bodies parted to reveal snatches of a woman, first her shapely arms, then her full breasts, and then there she was: young, dark eyed and brunette. When he pulled her into his lap, she resisted lightly.

 

“Monsieur!” She sounded severe.

 

“Oui.” He grinned, and looked directly down the open neckline of her dress. There, nestled between the lushness of her breasts, he noted, was a small faint bruise. She pulled the neckline down further, until he could almost see the edge of her nipple, and he pulled her fully into his lap, where he could feel himself hardening. He could already feel the heat of her on his thigh, and was trying to decide where he could take her, when he saw the young man, staring at him. He had the same dark hair and eyes, a nice broad chest, and his shirt lay open at the throat revealing warm olive skin. He had to turn slightly to pass a drunk lying across the floor and Porthos took this opportunity to note the nice firm slope of his backside. He consulted his cock, his cock assented. Oh, this would do, he thought, this would do nicely.

 

“Oliver,” the woman whispered to him, as the man walked up to them. Porthos looked at her. “Jeanne,” she continued, gesturing towards herself. For a moment, he wondered if they were related, and then he realized he did not care. It made no difference to him what their names or surnames were. They were here for a purpose. He ran his hand under Oliver’s shirt and felt stomach muscles that were hard and taut and eminently suitable. Before he could move his hand lower, Oliver backed away, giving him no choice but to follow.

 

From the main room, they proceeded to a hallway, and then to a room with two beds and a table. One bed was already occupied, Porthos noted absently that there was already a couple, a man with a woman’s legs wrapped around his hips, but no one seemed to care, and when Oliver removed his shirt and pants, he discovered he did not much care, either. He was staring at a chest that was finely muscled and lean, the shoulders broad and nicely defined, while his hand was stroking a cock that was so thick and hard that he could feel how much Oliver wanted him, and who was he to deny? He turned the other man around suddenly and planted his hands on the table, taking time to admire Oliver’s muscled back and the flex of his ass, where he noted there was a small, non-descript mole. He was so much stronger, and it felt so easy, he could be so much rougher now than with a woman. He could feel Jeanne stroking him through his trousers, so he removed them, and then felt her strong fingers oiling his cock – she was truly a gift. Then he reached around the other man, stroked once, and thrust into him, hard.

 

Oliver moaned, and he could feel the moan run through him. It felt so good, he thrust again, sinking deeper, Oliver’s moans mixing with the sounds of the other couple. He continued to stroke and thrust in unison, and saw the other man pushing into the woman with the same rhythm. On the man’s hip, there was a familiar mole. When the man moved his hips, as he was doing now, the mole seemed to change and to assume another shape altogether, until it almost resembled…a flower. There were too many images building for his head to contain, and there was an even more insistent pressure building at the base of his cock. In fact, the room seemed to be getting even more crowded altogether. Had more men just entered the room? Another part of him, the small part not actively engaged in fucking, seemed to be trying to tell him something. More men had indeed appeared. It may even, if Porthos had been thinking clearly, have had all the makings of an ambush. His brain could not make any sense of this, and then he came violently, and violence erupted around him.

 

Porthos caught the rope just as it swung over his neck and swung it’s holder into a wall. His reactions were automatic. Now that he was lucid, he could see that he was naked, swordless, and surrounded by unattractive men. The odds were hardly fair. However, his first instinct, as anyone who knew him would tell you, had nothing to do with modesty. No, he would gladly dance naked in front of schoolchildren. Realizing he was outnumbered and unarmed, his initial reaction was to grin. In practice, our Hero was the first to fight, the last to leave, and usually the last left standing.

 

One of the men slashed at him, the blade missing by barely an inch. He was quickly disarmed, and our Hero re-armed. Two men came at him simultaneously. He overcame them, easily. It made no difference. He was larger than two men, and stronger than three. If four men came at him afterwards, he simply dueled with two of them, punched the third, and shouldered the fourth onto the bed. The last man cast a gaze over his fallen comrades, and turned and fled. Porthos declined to give chase; they would come back for him eventually, and when they did, he would still win.

 

He took stock of his surroundings. Jeanne had disappeared, thoughtfully leaving him his pants. He contemplated putting them back on and saw Oliver was huddled beside a table. Porthos put down his sword and reached down his enormous hand to the man.

 

“Come with me.” Oliver looked at the hand, but did not accept it.

 

“Take it. I am almost sober. You would not like me sober.” Oliver, displaying a sound instinct for self-preservation, accepted the proffered hand.


	2. Part 2A

PART II: NOW COME THE SECOND  
Chapters 1 - 6

Chapter One: Consultation Between Friends

“I didn’t realize we had a male prostitute division.” This keen observation issued forth from the pouting lips of our Hero’s other left hand, M. D’Artagnan. 

Immediately prior, our Hero, Porthos, had found himself with a potential lead in his custody, and recognized that further measures would require an approach more nuanced than his own. Keeping that thought firmly in mind, he proceeded from the whorehouse, sometime before dawn, directly to the current living quarters of his good friend M. D’Artagnan. 

After several loud knocks, his efforts were met by an elderly tenant, who quietly took measure of our Hero’s height, width, girth, sword, suspect companion and maniac expression, and did not issue a word of protest when a large hand appeared to encompass the width of his entire head, and he found himself gently brushed aside. 

Porthos took the stairs to his friend’s bedroom in two bounds. “D’Artagnan! I need your-” And with those words, he burst into the room to catch a disgruntled D’Artagnan mid stroke. Their eyes met at a mutual point of axis, which proceeded to wilt. His friend did not appear altogether pleased to see him.

“Could this not have waited until morning?”

“It is morning.”

“I meant at a more reasonable hour.”

Porthos’ expression did not alter. “Is this an emergency?” D’Artagnan continued.

“Yes.”

D’Artagnan paused. He suspected that he was the only one feeling uncomfortable. “I am rather occupied at the moment.”

Porthos did a quick calculation. “That would occupy me at most ten minutes.”

“Then I will need twenty,” D’Artagnan insisted. And our Hero, acquiescing, retreated. 

 

Chapter Two: Five Minutes Later

 

Five minutes later, Porthos sat observing the two men. Oliver stood, motionless and unspeaking. This was not a new development. He had not spoken a single word during the entire of their acquaintance. D’Artagnan circled the other man, searching for details, a strategy which Porthos found entirely pointless since he, while seated, had the perfect vantage point from which to observe the both of them, the entire length of the room, and the front door that lay beyond.

 

“Out of every single person that attacked you, this is the one person, the only person, you were able to apprehend?”

“Yes.” D’Artagnan emitted a small sound that might have indicated annoyance, and continued circling.

With D’artagnan moving back and forth across his line of vision, our Hero could not help but notice that the boy was still not fitting his clothes properly. His shirt eclipsed rather than enhanced his narrow frame, and he stubbornly maintained that slender build that marked him as more of a boy than a man. His neck was what our Hero would woefully call "wrist sized," while his waist could potentially be measured against our Hero’s wrist. However, seeing the two of them together, he noted that both D’artagnan and Oliver shared a certain physical similarity. They both carried a matching lightness in their frames, and he knew, without even consciously thinking it, that they would align perfectly. Following that line of thought to its logical conclusion, he caught the direction of his friend's eyes and watched them trail along the length of Oliver's broad shoulders, and taper down the narrowness of his hips before running across onto the firm ridge of his ass, and there both their gazes lingered. There was a sharp cough, and both of the looked up to see Oliver. He met both their gazes directly, without expression. D’Artagnan flushed deeply and looked away; Porthos returned the gaze. He had been there before, and he would go there again. As he remembered it, the experience had been altogether pleasant. Perhaps…but Oliver looked away. 

D’Artagnan resumed pacing. 

“Does he speak?”

“We did not talk.”

“What did you - nevermind. Does he have a name?”

“Oliver.”

“He told you this?”

“No.”

“You are a useless source of information.”

“My strengths lie elsewhere.” 

Frustrated, D’Artagnan refocused his efforts on Oliver. His eyes sharpened. “I want to see the mark.” He proceeded towards Oliver, who, with mocking eyes, continued to offer no resistance.

“So do I,” our Hero answered, and immediately went to gather all the other occupants of the boarding house. 

While D’Artagnan directed himself towards examining the dark mole on Oliver’s flank, Porthos, quietly and with great authority, ordered all the residents under his inspection to strip. They all complied. All, that is, except one.

Chapter Three: The Circuitous M. LeCliche

By a slightly more reasonable hour, the two friends agreed to assemble at the residence of M. Athos with their combined findings, which were few. Between them, they understood that there was a network comprised of servants who rose out of the ranks of the lower classes, and who were then bound by a type of mark. They had two such in their custody, but neither were capable of telling them anything of use. The first, Oliver, appeared obstinately incapable of speaking, and the other spoke, but well…in truth…nothing he spoke held anything of value. Their questioning of Gaspard, Gaspard LeCliche - that incidentally was his name - had gone quickly enough, but while his words were in great abundance, in substance, he provided little. In fact, talking with LeCliche was like drinking from a beautiful fountain only to find that that the water of that fountain flowed from the local piss hole. That, in sum, described their experience with LeCliche.

The two friends had approached him in good faith. They had asked, simply, where had he received that mark? 

His answers, and there had been many, and the manner in which this information was conveyed was circuitous and often incomprehensible. In summary, no, no, and no, LeCliche had no idea how he had gotten the mark, he had simply always had it. It had been with him since birth, and at birth, he had been handed over to work as a servant. He had no interest in what some would call le danse avec le danger. Why? Why were they after him? What had he done? If they thought that he was some sort of questionable character, then they were swimming straight upstream! Further, in fact, he personally had thought that his mole was the mark of a servant, many servants had them. It was not uncommon, but it was not the mark of a miscreant. But now they were treating at him like they were two birds and he was une pierre! And on he went until our Hero, feeling his ears stuffed to overflowing with screams for mercy, covered that offending mouth. 

That, Porthos informed LeCliche, was sufficient.

The two friends sat Oliver and LeCliche side by side. They studied them at length. There was nothing overt to connect Oliver with this other man. However, witnessed in this way, the friends recognized that there were certain undeniable similarities between the two. For instance, there was the mark. Then, there were the dark eyes and olive skin. These, our Hero and D’Artagnan agreed, could not have been mere coincidence.

Chapter Four: Useful Information Courtesy of M. Athos

“Why have you brought me these gypsies?” Athos asked, his voice preceding him. 

Porthos half turned to see that his friend stood a mocking distance of six to seven feet away. If he had not turned, he would have sworn that Athos had spoken directly into his ear. He had almost felt a breath brush lightly against his neck, but that, he also knew, was Athos’s pet trick. As an aside, this was not the first time our Hero had been caught out by it. Athos enjoyed pitching his voice, so that he always appeared to be nearer or farther, more intimate or distant, but never, in relation to where he actually was. Incidentally, Athos had not even crossed the threshold of the room before speaking, and was leaning casually against the doorway, his eyes moving casually between the four of them.

Porthos was surprised. Not by the revelation about the gypsies, nor by Athos’s vocal tricks. He had fallen for these tricks before. No, what surprised him was the haphazard way that his friend’s shirt was buttoned. Athos was not drunk, they were all entirely sober at this point, and this was a sad fact. But he knew that his friend dressed, as he did most things, with cool deliberation. This implied of course, that he had been distracted, and here our Hero’s nuanced eye drank in further damning details: Athos’s pants were badly creased, his shirt lay open at the throat, revealing skin that positively gleamed under a light profusion of sweat. Most damning...and here Porthos’s eyes pricked, Athos’s features were, for this moment, as close to serene as he had ever seen. This was so out of character that Porthos stepped closer to complete his inspection, and in so stepping, he caught a whisper of movement up at the head of the stairs – but here Athos’s shoulder casually swayed across our Hero’s line of sight, effectively blocking him. 

They eyed at each other. Athos gave him a look of deep suspicion. This was more out of respect than cause. Of all the men in his acquaintance, Porthos counted as one of the least worthy apprehension. For all our Hero’s particular instincts, Athos knew that his friend was not capable of cunning. For his own part, Porthos returned the look blandly. He knew his friend was delaying responding to his rather obvious request, and he was waiting for Athos to decide whether and how much he would help them. 

Athos flared his brow in an elegant arc. He had made a decision, and his face had settled into the familiar lines of amusement and cruelty. In this way, he knew he could instill a quiet terror in those that he approached, but our Hero knew his friend’s many faces, he knew simply by an instinct bound up in friendship, that sometimes his friend’s cruelty was not so much an expression as a reflection of the events that fluttered sometimes across his friend’s façade, like shadows.

“How did you know that?” Ah, yes, it was D’Artagnan. His voice sounded completely baffled and brought them both back to the immediate present, the mark, and the gypsies. 

“Because one mind is often better than two heads,” came the rejoinder. These words, sharply spoken, passed right over the head of our Hero and straight into the heart of young D’Artagnan, who crumbled. 

But it seemed a decision had been made, and Athos walked over to the two olive skinned figures. 

“Did you want to see the m-” D’Artagnan started.

“No.”

“Have you ever stripped servants?” Porthos offered.

“Of course. Sometimes weekly, sometimes on the hour, and mostly for sport. Was there something I should been looking for?”

“They have identical markings.”

“You mean the mark that also appears as a flower.”

“How did you-” D’Artagnan could not seem to stop himself.

“Shut up. The mark only tells you that they are gypsies. I need to know where they are from. And that is where you will go. After.” Athos walked over and paused. LeCliche visibly squirmed. Oliver looked implacable, but all the color in his face withdrew. “This one,” and here he paused, waiting, before indicating LeCliche, “will tell you nothing. He is entirely useless. But this other one,” and then his eyes gleamed with amusement, “has the information you require.” However, this was not entirely true, Athos simply preferred a challenge.

Chapter Five: On the Advice of Athos

It may have taken an hour or a day, but afterwards Porthos found himself and D’Artagnan setting out to a series of small villages that splayed across the outskirts of Paris. They had with them still, in custody, the two persons of Oliver and LeCliche because, “Well I don’t want them,” Athos had said, before pushing them out the door and closing it. 

It would take a journey of at least few hours, by which time, all daylight would likely be gone, wine and women would be scarce, and the incipient presence of D'Artagnan would be damn near impossible to avoid. None of these thoughts occurred to our Hero. He was trying to hold in his mind the description that Oliver finally provided them…at the point of a knife. It had been a false description, and most likely a trap, even though information gleaned without force would have been even more unreliable. No, what caught our Hero had been the voice that had emerged from those sculpted lips, heavily accented, that had betrayed an ugly, callous nature completely at odds with his appearance. In fact, if he put more thought into the matter, there had been something wrong with Oliver’s tongue. When he finally spoke, it was with difficulty, and he opened his mouth, they could see the source of his disfiguration. Speaking seemed to cause the man to undergo a great deal of anguish, if not pain. Drawing out that hidden nature, to hear it issue from such beauty, had caused Athos’s eyes to gleam. 

“Ignore what he’s saying. I recognize that accent,” Athos had pronounced, looking directly at Oliver, and sent them on their way.

Chapter Six: The Deserted Village

By sunset, they reached what appeared to be an empty group of houses. They had made rather good time, considering that they, by which is meant Porthos, who had a strength greater than two men, had been single handedly dragging Oliver and LeCliche across the rough terrain at many points in their journey. It had not been easy. D’Artagnan had been brimming with ideas and generous with them, and it had taken great reserves of strength to ignore him. They had had to muffle LeCliche. At D’Artagnan’s suggestion, they had left their horses some ways back to travel without detection, and this had further inhibited their progress. Now that they had arrived at a village that was clearly deserted, this might have been seen as a stupid suggestion. 

From a distance, they had seen a small, rough house standing at the edge of high rise, it’s walls were made of light wood, and the roof of straw, but there was no scent of food, and no light, even though they were following on the footsteps of dusk. They approached quietly, looking through windows that lacked even the domesticity of curtains. The house lay empty, both of occupants and furnishings. Only a single oil lamp hung from a wall. There were five other houses, each similarly built with a light frame and flimsy roof, barely habitable, and their formation was strange. They seemed to have been built haphazardly, facing out randomly with no consideration for alignment or placement. Porthos looked inside each, but instead of furnishings, found only lanterns and the occasional heavy blanket lying across floors of dirt. They seemed to have come to a dead end. 

“But it can’t be deserted. Regarde!” D’Artagnan pointed. Porthos looked. No, it was not entirely deserted. Indeed, there was a chicken. That could indicate that the area was not entirely abandoned. Porthos and D’Artagnan looked at each other. In his friend, Porthos saw a bland expression set in a wan face. In turn, D’Artagnan saw his friend looking less than robust. When was the last time either of them had eaten? They cooked the chicken. 

Oliver took his portion grudgingly. He had not spoken a word since they had left Paris, and he appeared to be deep in thought. However, what could occupy him now that they were out in the countryside, did not particularly concern them. LeCliche, surprisingly, had become even more nervous since they had arrived. Despite the sweet air and the spring warmth, he shivered, and looked desperately at our two friends, then back down at his mouth. They looked at each other. In another man, they might have thought that he was trying to tell them something worthwhile, but in this case they knew better. 

“Does he need to relieve himself?” Porthos mused out loud, when LeCliche appeared to be on the point of collapse. D’Artagnan shrugged, still eating. LeCliche had started to strain, and then to jerk. Immediately upon arrival, his eye had begun twitching, so he was now a mute, jerking mess. 

Well, not every man desires to urinate in the presence of other men, Porthos mused, and dragged LeCliche off to the back of one of the houses. The jerking immediately became more pronounced. He must barely be able to restrain himself, thought Porthos, and this thought for some reason amused him. He decided to take LeCliche towards a house farther away, but the jerking slowed. That was clearly not worth the effort, he decided, and they moved back to the closer house, but in turning, our Hero felt a tremor that had the force of an earthquake emanating from the trembling figure connected to his arm.

“Do you want to go inside? Is that it?” The tremors worsened. This had become amusing again. “We will go inside.” At these words, LeCliche attempted to run away, but this was a futile effort, and our Hero half dragged him inside without even the slightest notice. There was, of course, nothing to be found. Nothing at all, thought our Hero, and he continued to think this as his heavy step broke through some false covering and he fell down straight through the floor.


	3. Part 2B

Chapter Seven: A Brief History Lesson

At this time, it is necessary to present an abbreviated history into one of France’s most illustrious families, the House of Rohan, with perhaps, a few embellishments of which some may not have been previously aware regarding its more notable figures. 

The start of the lineage began with Alain I de Rohan, the first to bear the name of Rohan and the title of Viscount. The title came courtesy of his father, while Rohan was in deference to the place of his birth. The beginnings were auspicious. From that initiating progenitor followed a period of fiscal prosperity and fecund abundance. Each successive generation added to the hereditary stock, and bore a minimum of two male heirs a season, thereby ensuring lineage. The line continued in this merry way for some time. That is, until the ripe and fruitful branches of this familial orchard converged to end abruptly with Jean II de Rohan, who neither the combined weight of heritage and ancestry nor the pressures of social mores could push into penetrating a woman. No, he much preferred horses. Breeding them, that is. With other horses.

The torch of the Rohan line rose again with Rene II, Viscount of Rohan. In the Rohan tradition, Rene sired two sons, the elder Rene III, who would live a life of grace and brevity, and the younger Henri II, who would survive. Surpassing his father, Henri II de Rohan-Gie became the first Duc de Rohan and, despite a strong preference for military command would, in the end, succumb to duty. He married to produce the sole Rohan heir, Marguerite de Rohan, a tall beauty from whose fierce, cerulean gaze shone the pure spring of the Rohan bloodline, and the twin traits of intelligence combined with ambition, but who, unfortunately, was a woman. 

In the end, as the pull of duty continued to weigh, Henri would eventually produce a son. The young Rohan would also grow in beauty, except of a different nature. Unlike the tall militant bearing of his paternal predecessors, he would grow to fill a slender frame, and his blank, dark eyes would stare out from an olive complexion. 

At the request of his son’s mother, Henri would request a minor alteration to the de Rohan family crest to include, in a protected corner, a simple nondescript blossom comprised of five symmetrical petals.

 

Chapter Eight: Sex

By morning, LeCliche would be dead. By the next night, they would be attacked. At present, however, Porthos found himself nursing some severe bruising, sustained from that unaccountable fall. What type of person would furnish a floor with a hole? D’Artagnan had eventually pulled him out, aching and bemused. He had dropped a good distance but no one had felt the need to explore this particular development until morning. From their combined provisions, the only salve to be found was fit only for a horse, but this would find no complaint with our Hero. 

This stuff was surprisingly potent, he thought, rubbing the salve deep into the tissues of his legs, arms and back. Almost immediately, he could feel he sharp pain begin to dull to a minor pulse and he felt a surprising melting sensation that spread from his head, down his back, and then pleasantly through his legs. Yes, this was indeed the best remedy for the situation, he thought, and he floated pleasantly in and out of consciousness. He fell lightly into a dreamless slumber and then emerged to reside in that delightful place between deep sleep and full wakefulness. 

At some point, his mind decided that he should move closer to the fire. They had built – no, he had built, he corrected - a strong fire to cook their last meal. His mind briefly wandered over to the minute intricacies of that fire. Was D’Artagnan tending to it? Had they properly secured their prisoners? Did he have the energy to stand? And he found that he did. He could see himself wobbling awkwardly in the dark, his mind floating slightly above himself. From there, he could see that he had on his perplexed face, and he thought this was a suitable occasion for it. Then he could see that his shirt was slightly more crumpled on one side – the shirt was ruined, there was no saving it – but the figure nonetheless smoothed out its left side until the ruin was symmetrical. 

 

He saw his body wander off in the direction of firelight, and then casually slump towards the ground, where he used the momentum of his fall to roll for a few moments before relaxing into a light doze. A snore erupted vaguely from the direction of his right flank. After a few moments, he repositioned himself onto his stomach, crawling being infinitely preferable to walking, and found LeCliche asleep and bound on his side behind a rock. This being accomplished, our Hero reoriented himself towards his original goal of sleeping by firelight.

His mind still refused to reenter his body and remained hovering somewhere slightly above and to the left, which left him feeling slightly disoriented and uneven, so that when he moved, he seemed to favor his right when he knew he should be moving left. When he began to hear grunting, he could not be sure of its direction or if he had fallen back asleep. Then he saw a bowl of drained chicken fat and then the two of them, naked and fucking. 

D’Artagnan had bent Oliver over a rock and mounted him, holding the man’s hips in place while he slowly pushed himself inside. As our Hero had predicted, they aligned perfectly. They both had very little excess flesh under their skin. Porthos could easily trace the individual lines of muscle flexing across D’Artagnan’s corded shoulders and arms where he gripped Oliver’s hips, and the dips along the sides of Oliver’s ass as he pushed back and tightened in an intimate rhythm. D’Artagnan was drawing out the moment, pushing in and out, varying his rhythm. His face was open and contorted as he bit into the sweet flesh at the back of Oliver’s neck. And Oliver, well Oliver was smiling, his prick fully engorged. D’Artagnan’s strokes began to get rough and uneven. He held Oliver’s hips with both hands, pumping blindly. Oliver’s back bowed as he spent himself, and then his body relaxed. D’Artagnan’s hands trembled, then slipped away. Soon after, Oliver settled into sleep. But D’Artagnan was a good soldier, and he stayed awake to keep watch. 

Watching them, Porthos felt himself relaxing into a pleasant unconsciousness when a thought occurred to him; from where he lay, he could see that Oliver’s mark, which had flowered and blossomed so pleasantly under his own thumb while they had fucked…appeared to have moved. Then he slept.

Chapter Nine: Bickering

LeCliche was dead. They had woken to a faultless sky and gentle breezes. Porthos felt refreshed; he flexed his legs and arms, and was rewarded by only a small scream of pain, which was entirely normal. Oliver was still bound and unspeaking, which was also as it should be. D’Artagnan, however, appeared anguished. He was staring down at a space behind one of the houses when Porthos joined him. There lay LeCliche, his hands bound, and his neck twisted. Porthos looked at his friend, who he trusted with his own life, and who returned his gaze directly. Without speaking, they agreed that they would not, either of them, turn to look at Oliver. Each man drew his own conclusions. But in the end, there was nothing to be done; LeCliche was dead. They buried him. 

“What will we do about that hole you fell through?” D’Artagnan asked. They had returned to the house, and were contemplating the large hole in the base of the floor. They took turns peering inside. The drop was steep. If they feel through, they should be able to stand upright without difficulty, but if they dared to breathe, the air reeked with the force of a thousand anonymous armpits.

Porthos did not answer. Instead, he smiled broadly. He favored the direct approach, as D’Artagnan well knew.

“Where do you think it leads?” D’Artagnan continued, ignoring that smile. 

“Why don’t we find out?”

“Do you think it would be the wisest option for all of us to go into an unknown…hole. Maybe we should…take turns?” This was a perfectly reasonable idea. If this idea had come from… perhaps…Athos, this would have been taken into consideration. However, in a few moments, Porthos knew, D’Artagnan would begin to whine. And this suggestion was merely a precursor to indecision, which would lead to inaction, and in the end they would have nothing but hours of whingeing for all their efforts.

“We will not go in at once.” D’Artagnan appeared relieved. “We will go in one at a time.” D’Artagnan opened his mouth to protest, and Porthos let go the final blow. “You will go in first, and Oliver and I will follow.” 

“Do we have to go?”

“Yes, but it will have to be you. First.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

“Right –”

“Yes.”

“But –”

“Do you require my assistance?” D’Artagnan shut up and disappeared into the hole.

Seconds later, D’Artagnan voice emerged sounding clear and strong. “This place reeks of cat shit!” His remarks were received with satisfaction; D’Artagnan had survived.

“Now,” Porthos looked genially at Oliver, “will you be requiring my assistance?” In response, Oliver dropped himself down the hole and landed soundlessly. 

Porthos mentally congratulated himself, gathered their few provisions, and let himself drop into darkness. 

Chapter Ten: The Anus of Hades

He was known to his face as the Fist of Zeus, and to his retreating back as the Anus of Hades. However, the more accurate description was that he was simply a Bastard of the literal sense. None of this was to any effect, and that was due only in part to his status as the Rohan heir. It had not hindered him from mastering both literature and swordsmanship. It had not kept him from learning a stringed instrument. No one in his household could manipulate the harp as well as he, as his fingers possessed exceptional beauty as well as superior dexterity. Nor could anyone handle a sword with his particular aptitude. No, these gifts were his alone. Pondering these thoughts as well as his many other natural gifts, Henri de Rohan II, the sole male heir to the Rohan lineage, reclined deeper into the cushions of his bed. These precious afternoon hours upon waking were his sole sanctuary before he was forced to don the mantle of greatness and take on the responsibilities of managing his largesse. With his father, the elder Henri, constantly away on military affairs -

“Ah, you’re awake.” The curtains drew back to reveal the sharp eyes and drawn face of his elder sister, Marguerite. She was angry, likely at him. He awoke daily to the swell of her anger, usually over some minor mishap, and swam in its currents through his daily lessons until he could settle back against the shores of sleep. That was enough for him.

“You have slept through your morning lessons again, and I had to act in your place to resolve some land disputes that required your express approval. I had to assure them that my word could stand in place of yours, and then used your seal in secret to continue this deception. Also, I will be removing the lock on your door immediately, which concludes this morning’s business. Now,” and here her expression shifted to one of resignation, “to that other matter.” 

He had realized some time ago, that she expected more from him. Her accusations were never subtle, and they wounded him deeply. When Marguerite was calm, she would say, “if you are allowed to act as the head of this House as you are, you will be the end of it.” 

When she became more agitated, she made him recite the Novena to St. Peregrine. Very rarely, her anger would fall away, as if a mask, and then she became very sad, her eyes became liquid looking at him, and then she would say, almost to herself, “If only I were male.”

This might have continued indefinitely, this parade of lessons and deception. His swordsmanship improved, he took up hunting and composition, all the while continuing to leave the daily running of the household to his more than capable sibling. This all came to an unhappy end one day when he rolled up the silk cuffs of his shirt on a particularly hot day, and a filthy man by the side of the road pointed at the unfortunate scar on the inside his forearm and then grabbed hold of his leg, refusing to let go. He had honestly considered dragging the man until the bastard fell off of his own accord, but Marguerite had interceded. She listened to the man speak with a dirty village accent. She had listened with great interest to what appeared to be one of the most unattractive, foul-smelling, and unkempt man his eyes had ever had the displeasure of beholding.

Marguerite talked to this reeking mess for what felt like hours. Finally, she had had enough, and when she finished, he fully expected them to be on their way and put this entire episode behind them. Instead, she had turned to him, and said in a tone that brokered no objection, “This is an opportunity, Henri, for you to show that you can lead.”

Chapter Eleven: Clues That Are Ignored

 

They found themselves in a narrow passageway, where Porthos had had to bend down to nearly half his size simply to move forward. And that was the goal, to continue moving with D’Artagnan in front and Porthos behind, pushing Oliver back and forth between them, until they reached the end of this…tunnel. He could feel the air becoming thin, which he could not help but appreciate now that he was half his size. However, there was nothing for it, and he contented himself with what little scenery availed itself. 

In front, he could stare longingly at Oliver’s straight back and lush hair. This, while appealing, could hold his attention for only a short while before his eyes wandered over to the side wall. Ah…there, on the right, was…a fascinating series of parallel lines and mathematical calculations, seemingly drawn by hand. The walls themselves should hold, of this there was no doubt, because they appeared to be made from a type of stone. However, none of this added detail particularly interested our Hero. Then his eyes caught sight of what appeared to be…drawings - wait no - rather they were…symbols, or to be more precise, they were…words. Yes, words, which, if our Hero had not been so altogether bored, he would not have normally bothered reading, because if he had spent more time reading as a child, he would have made a poor swordsman. 

By the dim light of his lantern, he could see that the words put together assembled to create a kind of timeline, almost akin to a family tree, which traced the members of – and this name might even have been familiar to him – an ancestral line by the name of Rohan. Yes, there was the first Rohan in the line, Porthos counted along, followed by his many progeny, followed by the progeny of progeny. Then there appeared the official crest of the Rohan house, which bored him, followed by the tracings of a simple flower, which caused his eyes to glaze further, and then a very rough drawing of the young Rohan heir. Now this image arrested our Hero somewhat, because the heir had a girl’s beauty, of the kind that arrested a man’s eyes and held him under its sway, however briefly. He had seen this face, with its plump lips, flush red hair and dark eyes, and made the usual mistake. 

What was his name? Porthos pondered this for a second; he had the time. Henri? Henri the Second…the name came to him eventually. Henri the second, the Rohan bastard. Yes, that was the full title. Recalling what images he could from public sightings, he pieced them together into an awkward collage. The young Rohan was a pretty boy with the body of a man, a tall one, strong and good with his sword. He had a natural talent and the strength in his arms of his military father. None of this mattered; the boy was weak. Anyone with any sense of his opponent, as our Hero did, could tell that the boy lacked the mental forbearance to take and inflict pain. No, this boy was made for softer things, for cosseting and…flower arranging. The name of Rohan would fall to ruin under this boy’s soft hands. Now, how far along were they?

The passage had begun to narrow, and in a short time he could predict that he would have to shift sideways, which would be embarrassing at best. The air was thinning now, or was he just tired from contorting himself? He found it hard to get enough air while gazing deeply into his own navel. Ahead, he could see no light, only the play of his own lantern moving softly against Oliver’s retreating back. He supposed that with no end in sight and his supply of air diminishing, he should feel a sense of panic, but he trusted his comrade. D’Artagnan was neither stupid nor untested; if there was danger, they would have stopped. They stopped. 

“What is it?” Porthos moved closer to his friend.

“I felt a breeze,” D’Artagnan whispered.

Taking a cue from his friend, Porthos whispered back, “Then that is a positive sign,”

“And there, ahead of us, is a ladder that leads to an opening.”

“Again, this is positive news. Why have we stopped?”

“There is something not right about this.” The younger man’s brow furrowed. He looked off to his left uncomfortably, focusing his thoughts. “Why would the air move down here, unless there is something shifting the air close to that opening?” 

He inclined his head toward Porthos. “There is someone else moving outside there, waiting for us.” D’Artagnan’s body had grown increasingly tense. “This entire time, I have felt a third person, following us.” He paused. “He was there last night. Have you felt him?”

“No.” Porthos attempted to move forward, but it appeared that his friend had not finished.

“D’Artagnan, you are my good friend. I need air.”

“We need a plan.”

“I have one.”

“Then share it with me!”

“We use…” and our Hero’s eyes traced over the supple man squeezed between them. For emphasis, he made a vulgar thrusting movement which almost knocked over M. D’Artagnan.

“I see.” D’Artagnan, recovering himself, responded. “Yes, that is a good plan. Now we need to…move…so that…” Between the three of them, they managed to contract D’Artaganan while simultaneously lifting Oliver so that now D’Artaganan stood in the center, gripping Oliver by the man’s bound wrists.

“Now,” D’Artagnan started, but Porthos stopped him. Instead, he reached over and closed the entire of his hand around the length of Oliver’s throat, applying a continuous even pressure until he could feel the other man’s body constrict. 

“Good, you’re listening,” he breathed across D’Artagnan’s cheek into the other man’s ear. “We have done this before, many times, so I know what you will do. You will go ahead of us in case there is a trap, and we will follow behind more slowly. You will run. Then, after you have run, we will find you. Then, and this makes me sad to even contemplate, I am making you a promise, that I will kill you. This is what always happens,” Porthos continued in that same congenial tone. They were slowly approaching the opening. “So you may want to change your mind, while you still can.”

With that, Porthos released his hold, and Oliver, showing surprising agility for someone who was moving with his hands bound in front of him, braced himself against the walls, leapt cleanly through the above opening and disappeared. D’Artagnan followed, yelling. Porthos took his time. The opening was a small one and he was a large man. 

Chapter Twelve: The Making of an Enemy

 

“There always should be someone worth hating.” - Anonymous

“I want you to catch every gain of sand that falls from my hand.” Left to his own devices, feats such as these would have been how the young Rohan spent the whole of his authority over his newly acquired kingdom. Coincidentally, his sister Marguerite saw matters in an entirely different light. 

After the old man left, women and men both began to come, day and night, to see the young Rohan, to see the beautiful and rich young man that bore their mark and wore their eyes and yet held a position of great authority in one of the most established families in Paris. Marguerite, holding court, welcomed every new person into their great house and questioned each of them at length, gleaning information that they in their specific…social standing…had all reason to know. Through her diligence and skillful probing, she uncovered that they maneuvered throughout Paris, often sight unseen, by means of the Paris tunnels, long underground stone mines that snaked beneath the city streets, unknown and heretofore overlooked by all but the miners that toiled within, and the men that oversaw them, until they served a third purpose by allowing a transient group of people to move undetected in and around Paris. 

When they replied, they spoke to Marguerite, but before answering, their eyes sought out the approval of the young Rohan, and in this way they directed their undivided loyalty towards Henri, which was a balm to his pride. For Marguerite, with her cerulean eyes and her tall beauty, stemming as it did from an untainted bloodline, was as one outside their own. Even in his own household, where he remained the sole male heir, an important distinction, Marguerite’s orders triumphed over his. Every one of his orders was always subject to a second test against Marguerite’s better judgment, and every servant hurried directly to her chambers following his. Now, for the first time in Henri’s life, there were servants at his sole disposal that held his wants and desires as their primary aim. Finally, his word would be first and last, both the opening and closing argument, and his arrogance bathed in newfound lasciviousness. 

“They have great deal of knowledge of this city,” she informed him at length. “The way that they move without detection could potentially prove useful. No one notices them, even when they are seen, they are merely…disregarded.” Here her eyes turned inward. “I am thinking in the way of…” And here she took a moment to gather her thoughts, “information gathering.”

“I have noticed that a few of them have distinct talents,” she continued, and so she had. Adding to the daily running of their household, she had gone around with each new arrival, tracking names, ferreting out talents, and otherwise separating wheat from chaff, so that Henri now had at his disposal an extensive detailing of the innate faculties of each member of his new contingent. There were, for instance, a group of four men that fought as if they came from one soul, the twins, a few lovely but deadly women, a few with some agility, and most importantly, according to Marguerite at least, the fact that most if not all could find their way underneath the Paris streets practically without sight.

“They trust you implicitly, more than they would ever trust me.” 

So, she had noticed this, eh? Henri smiled to himself and lounged deeper into the rich velvet of his seat cushions. Perhaps, then, his sister had some meager talent. As his height he could afford to be generous. She was pacing back and forth, as was her custom, moving while she thought. It had been made so obvious to him over the course of weeks, that the loyalty the gypsies showed each other, they believed was the same loyalty that he, in turn, must feel towards them.

His mind turned towards more interesting ventures. His father was a military man, a conqueror and leader among men, and he himself deserved much the same. In his mind, he heard Marguerites words weighted in duty and responsibility, and untapped potential, all such boring terms really, and translated them to suit his own purposes.

“With our unseen network, we would be able to serve the king in a new capacity. We could guard against attempts at the throne at points throughout the city or…anywhere, really,” she persisted, pacing. Now, what use had he for the king and his threats while he was insulated by his money and position? What use had he for a network of information that did not advance his own interests? What were, in fact, his interests? For the first time, he consulted within himself and found a deep and endless void, a lack of emotion or of care that stretched without limit, and so endlessly that it would have scared him had he been capable of it. 

“That is enough,” he cut through her musings. She looked at him, surprised, but not offended. “I want to think on this. Please leave…No,” she paused. He directed his finger toward two young men – what were their names – he didn’t care, they looked fit and healthy, like fresh dogs. “You two, you stay.” They stayed, chattering and smiling, while everyone else left the room. He sat back, and saw them as they were, two attractive, good-natured young men, prone to idle speaking, with plush lips and trusting dark eyes. Then, in a burst of inspiration, he suddenly saw them as they could be. 

“Stop talking.” They went still. “Can either of you handle a sword?” Both nodded. He retrieved a pair of swords from his wall. One weapon was badly damaged, but not obviously so. He knew this, and in so knowing, he angled his wrist subtly while throwing, the movement disguised by the length of his sleeve, so that the undamaged sword landed closer to the feet of his favored opponent.

“Each of you, pick a sword.” After the swords landed, there was an odd pause, and this was, in retrospect, a deciding moment. Henri was not entirely sure of his authority, and they were not yet used to the harness of unwavering obedience. If they had disobeyed Henri, he would have run them through himself, without question. They were boys, he was a trained swordsman, and he could never tolerate disobedience. But, after a moment’s hesitation, the twins complied. Henri smiled. “Now, you will fight each other until one of you wins.” They started. “Wait – here is the first rule. You will not stop fighting until I decide who has won. I repeat, you will not stop for any reason until I tell you. There are no excuses for stopping. In fact, if you stop, the other one must” he thought for a moment, “cut you. That is the second rule.” Henri considered this a particular stroke of genius. He had never seen blood drawn. He wondered how he would react.

“But,” one of them had an idea, “we could break all these nice things.” This was true. They were surrounded by priceless artifacts collected by the elder Rohan and the preceding Rohan going back generations. But they meant nothing to the present Rohan. 

“Then break them,” and I will hold you to account later, he thought. “But do not stop.”

“But,” it was the same twin speaking again, and Henri noticed with some satisfaction, that this was the one holding the broken sword. He had a beautiful voice, too, which was completely wasted on someone of so low a stature. Henri would have to do something about that tongue. “What do we fight for?”

The young Rohan gave this some little thought. “A name. There are two of you, with the same face. It is excessive for you both to have names. Only the stronger one deserves a name. The other, well, the other will be punished.” Henri had already decided what that would be. That part seemed to come rather easily to him. 

They fought. For three full days without stopping, or more to the matter, without Henri stopping them. For someone who regularly required ten hours of sleep a night, he found reserves of energy he had never known existed. He followed the two of them, out of his rooms, through the dinner hall, across the threshold of the servants’ quarters, and finally out into the gardens. The twins began with enthusiasm and ended without mercy, dredging up supplies of energy reserved solely for survival. Henri followed and watched with detached interest. His indifference and intensity, without him knowing, gave the appearance of great perception. And this impression, misleading though it was, embedded itself into the subconscious minds of all who saw him on those three days, with the exception of his sister, who knew him better. 

When they were beaten, half mad, and half cut open, Henri interceded, almost as an act of mercy, and declared a victor. Then he began their lessons.


	4. Part 2C and Epilogue

Chapter Thirteen: The Strategy of Relaxation

He had disappeared. They had had one remaining prisoner literally between them and they had lost him. 

After Oliver had ascended, they had been treated to the odd sensation of hearing two people laughing with one voice. When they had emerged from the opening, they had seen Oliver’s bindings lying at the base of a tree. They had been cut clean through. Behind this infamous tree was a forest, and beside the forest was an open grassy plain, which was the same plain from which they had traveled previously, so beyond it, they could infer, lay Paris. What they had not seen was Oliver, or anyone else for that matter. D’Artagnan’s proclivities had come to naught, and their plan to use Oliver to ensure their own safety had suffered a similar defeat.

What was not ultimately in question, however, was where their quarry had gone. After fanning out and circling the immediate area, they discovered the opening to what was clearly another stone mine, except this time, the opening was the size of a door that any man could run through, moving with great haste and luxurious ease. Upon this discovery, D’Artagnan’s youth overcame him and his eagerness returned full fold, but when he would have broken into a run, an anvil in the shape of a hand descended pleasantly onto his shoulder, and he sagged under the weight of it. 

“What?” D’Artagnan turned towards his friend. “What are you doing?”

Porthos smiled pleasantly in response. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

“It looks like you’re stopping me,” the younger man continued, dragging his shoulder out from the offending hand.

“Then that is probably what I am doing. I am not a dissembler. If I tell you that a man is coming at you with a knife, you should duck.”

“But – but you do understand that our prisoner has – where are you going now?” For Porthos had calmly wandered off in the direction of the forest.

“I’m going to set some traps, which will catch our next meal, and then we can continue with the fighting and chasing,” Porthos continued, knotting some rope together and tying them to low hanging brush. He paused. “You can keep talking, I am listening. With my third ear.” Then he laughed at his own joke.

“I don’t understand you. We are wasting time! The more time we spending…cooking, is time we allow him to get farther away from us!”

“I don’t much care for chasing.”

“What?”

“Fighting yes, but the chasing part…no.”

“Why does that matter? You always have to chase someone before you kill them. No man is going to coming running into your sword! If that happened, then there would be no need for Musketeers!”

Porthos gestured for them to hide themselves. “Do you know why I don’t care for it?” he asked, after he had settled himself.

“Do we have to discuss this now?”

“Well, we are waiting for rabbits to run into my traps, and what I am saying is relevant.”

“Chasing is more relevant!” Now D’Artagnan was whispering feverishly behind a set of bushes, where they had retreated to give their quarry a better chance of getting caught, and Porthos, having taken refuge behind a much larger boulder, looked down on him good naturedly.

“What about,” and here D’Artagnan looked up slyly, “your promise to him?”

“My promise?”

“Yes, your promise. You told him, and I remember this clearly, that if he tried to escape, you would kill him.”

“Ah…” Porthos brightened. “That promise.”

“Yes, in keeping with that…”

“Do you know how many times I have made that particular promise?”

Now D’Artagnan appeared uncertain. “No, not exactly…”

“Neither do I,” Porthos cut in, grinning. “I use that saying frequently when I am drunk, and many times even when I am sober, and I mean it every time. But you can see how that creates a problem. Sometimes people run away. Some leave the county altogether. That in itself is a kind of death. But if I had to hand death to each and every person I promised, well…my tomb stone might as well say ‘I Will Be Returning for the Rest of You.’” 

“So, you might not kill him?” D’Artagnan looked disappointed.

“No, I did not say that.” Porthos grinned at him and slowly released his sword from his scabbard. It was an exceptionally long blade, well polished. Well used. “He is a dead man. When I lift my sword, I can feel him on the other end of it.”

The two men locked eyes in understanding. “It will not be long from now. Why don’t we check the traps?” D’Artagnan nodded. 

They eventually caught a hare for each of them, and the two men set to skinning and cooking. Presently, there was a low fire and the smell of roasting meat turning slowly over it when D’Artagnan, like a dog with an itch, returned to his favorite subject.

“So, why didn’t we chase him?”

Porthos paused in his chewing and swallowed thoughtfully, the flames licking at his face. “We are chasing him. Just not when he expects us to.” D’Artagnan did not appear to understand.

“Tell me, my young friend,” Porthos continued pleasantly, “are you in such a hurry to die?”

“What?” D’Artagnan was taken aback. “No. Of course not. I’m eager to fight. Like you.”

“I used to fight and chase, and fight and chase. They always run from me eventually, and even then I did not enjoy the chasing, because when you chase, you always find five other men with swords waiting for you at the other end.” Porthos took another bite and chewed thoughtfully. “I have no doubt that that is what is waiting for us now.”

“So you do not think that Oliver is running away.”

“No. He is confident for some reason. He knows we’re coming. He will wait.”

“And isn’t this the same as our own plan? To wait?”

“In a way. It is also to surprise. To wear them down. There is nothing worse than having to be completely alert for hours.”

“For hours?” D’Artagnan smiled.

“For hours.” Porthos put his finished meal off to the side and settled in for a nap with a smile. “I like to savor my food.” When he woke again, he would be replenished. 

Chapter Fourteen: Blows Between Friends

Where were they, he wondered? First, to himself, and then aloud and with relish. Where were they, where were they, where were they? Henri paced back and forth across the narrow balcony of his tower. It was not a great height, and truly that was not the point. The tower, set as it was in the center of the garden, was strategic, more a vantage point from where he could survey the width and breadth of his surroundings. If he was looking for a way to view the every man in his vicinity, for the immediate area provided no cover, he could do no better. However, the height was more of an indication of status, specifically his dominion over all others on his estate. He rose at most ten feet above ground, but the implication had been made. 

In the space twenty feet from him, lay the entryway from which the men, there should have been two of them, and they should have arrived five hours since. If all had gone as he had foretold, then by now, they would be hanging from the branches of his cypress. 

They would still come, he believed, but all discipline had deserted his men. They were not made to serve and did not accept his orders as a mandate. During the delightful first hour, he had waited for the other two men to follow with the anticipation of a child. First Oliver had alighted, bowing, and then the other, informing him that the two Musketeers were not far behind. He had immediately had men gathered and outfitted, and retreated to the vantage point of his tower, where his sister observed him without expression, and a delicious tension had built. Then…nothing.

After the first hour had deserted him, there had been a kind of dulled anticipation. Where there had been excitement, there was now simply overbearing tension…and no release for it. What was needed was discipline, what was on offer was violence. The men were all restless, and they were armed, and as it was Henri felt as if he were balancing on the serrated blade of a knife. There would - regardless of whether two men ever appeared - be a fight. 

Incidentally, several feet below these events, and a good several feet west of them, our two friends were already engaged in heated battle. It had begun with a single comment. D’Artagnan had observed that these people, these gypsies, seemed to have obtained a singular strategic advantage, namely by their intimate knowledge of underground tunnels that ran, potentially, all throughout Paris. 

Listen, D’Artagnan had insisted, the very path Porthos had taken from the door of the initial whorehouse to the actual…whore…area…place where Porthos had met Oliver…had been a sort of tunnel, hadn’t it? Had not the men who had attacked him appeared seemingly out of thin air? D’Artagnan’s voice grew more passionate as the entire of his theory began coalescing in his mind. 

This means, he continued, that whoever it is that is behind Oliver and the men who attacked – because more and more, this seems to be part of a larger plan – will be able to move men, undetected throughout Paris, will be able to attack and depart unnoticed, at any time. Can you comprehend the power that is available to someone with that knowledge? D’Artagnan implored. Do you understand the gravity of what I am saying to you? 

Certainly so, Porthos had agreed, the people we are up against are excellent tunnelers.

That is not my point! Not my point at all! D’Artagnan would have shrilled if he had not been whispering. They had been walking for some time, and the young man had been itching to fight for even longer. We have uncovered grand scheme, he continued, information which, in the wrong hands could lead us all to ruin.

I realize that, Porthos had replied, only half listening, these gypsies are truly exceptionally good at tunneling. And something, possibly in his tone, had given D’Artagnan pause. 

Then D’Artagnan had then emitted a sound between a shrill and fart, and launched himself at Porthos, all the while continuing to whisper furiously. How, D’Artagnan hissed, could Porthos be so exceptional at anything having to do with fighting and strategy, and…feeding himself and yet so obtuse in every other way imaginable? Why was he so…so single handedly exceptional? Couldn’t he spare some small acknowledgement for what he, D’Artagnan, had just uncovered?

Well yes, Porthos had answered, baffled, and I agreed with you. These gypsies are very good at tunneling. And then he had been subjected to a sudden onslaught of fists jabs and elbow blows, as D’Artagnan was wont to do when he felt himself particularly maligned. Porthos, feeling at a loss as to how to resolve this dispute, and wanting some relief from the fists and elbows, parried and backed away. However, that meant they were walking away from the light cast by their lanterns and soon were enveloped in darkness, with D’Artagnan, being young and fit, in no mood to stand down. Looking around, Porthos thought he saw a light coming down from above, and although there was something in the back of his mind that told him to stay away, he could not remember why this was such a bad idea when the alternative was currently pummeling his midsection. He bumped into a ladder in the dark. He did not want to continue fighting with his friend. In the dark he might actually crush the boy. There was no other choice; he began ascending. 

“What are you doing?” D’Artagnan hissed below, grabbing the lower rungs to steady the wood against the shock of Porthos’s sudden weight. 

“I’m going up,” Porthos hissed in return, not remembering why it was they had to keep quiet.

“Wait – they’re up there – remember? We had a plan to –” D’Artagnan continued hissing, but it was too late, because Porthos, displaying amazing agility for someone so wide, had already emerged from the opening to meet a deafening silence. For a brief moment, the shape of Porthos’s shadow lay comfortingly across the opening, and then it moved and there was nothing but open sky. 

Chapter Fifteen: Battle Without Honor

There were men wandering restlessly across his gardens and there were men trimming hedges with swords, and what had started as a fighting exercise was quickly descending into mutiny. Henri knew that he had to impose order, or any further plans would come to a sticky end.

“Gather in the center of the lawn, between the two young trees there, or rather, in front of the entryway. I have something to say to all of you.”

Most of the men gathered, but with less than the usual deference. If he did not say something inspiring now, they would likely leave, taking their knowledge with them. He could already hear his sister behind him, particularly because she was speaking out loud.

“As I told you,” she said from behind his left shoulder, “you should have ordered that they draw you a map of the underground tunnels and then left them alone. None of this fighting business. Only a few are actually meant to handle swords. I talked with each and every one of them. They are not good soldiers. They are loyal to a fault, but they do not take orders well.” 

He did not want to turn around to address her, he could not abide her eyes, but he turned because he instinctively knew that her anger needed addressing as much as the men dissolution below, and moreover he was coming to realize that her judgment was often correct even if her delivery was cutting. 

“I am not wrong, Marguerite. Just because the men are restless does not mean that the two musketeers will not appear. If we simply wait, everything that I have predicted will come to pass. They are taking their time getting here, so my timing is off, but that was my only flaw.” 

He looked up. Her eyes spat at him out of her pale face. She looked as though she were going to say something more, but he turned away. 

“Now,” that fire being quelled, he could return to his other more pressing problem. The men at his service were gathered near the opening, their swords were drawn and in their midst was a hugely impressive man, who was smiling at them.

“What do you want?” Henri called down, assuming a tone of command. He knew that from this angle, at this time of day, the sun lay directly behind him, and the man would look up to hear his voice and be blinded. 

Porthos could not see who was speaking to him with such a pretty voice. When he tried to follow the voice with his eyes, Henri gave a pre-arranged signal, and the men were immediately upon him. 

This time, at least, then men did not appear from thin air. They were in front of him, in back, and on either side, and they attacked from every angle, simultaneously. If there had been possibly a foot less of space for him to maneuver, Porthos might not have survived. However, he knew his size, and he had enough space for a decent charge at the men directly in front of him. The maneuver of using his size to intimidate smaller men into freezing up had always come naturally to our Hero, as the opposing man’s natural instinct to use his sword are a shield to protect himself came to him. In that way, Porthos broke unharmed from the first circle of attackers, only to face a second armed circle of men. The first man thrust immediately – there would be no break, it seemed – and Porthos found him running that man through on instinct alone. Where his mind could no longer process, years of training immediately engaged. If he stopped, if he did not guard his back as well as his front, if he did not turn right and block left, if he was not four men fighting as one man, then he was as good as dead. In short, Porthos was thoroughly enjoying himself. 

When he finally broke through the second circle, there was a pause, and then a man stepped out wearing a coat of rich green brocade, and it was Oliver, and he was smiling, and his smile was a strange facial contortion, where all beauty retreated and in its place was left only Hatred and its bastard cousin, Malevolence. In his right hand, Oliver swiveled an elegant sword, which flashed with a long, polished blade. In that simple movement, Porthos could see the practiced ease with which Oliver handled his instrument. Then, somewhere behind him, Porthos heard a second, identical movement and he turned his head only halfway, so as to keep Oliver within his line of vision. He knew now that these men fought with no sense of honor, they would stab him in his back and in his foot before they would face him directly, and he was now to witness the full extent of that dishonor, because standing behind him, in identical green brocade, and smiling, was Oliver. Porthos was completely taken aback, and while he was so engaged, Oliver attacked.

Running on instinct alone, Porthos ducked and rolled away in time to see two blades meet in the spaces that his heart and lungs had vacated seconds before. Even so, the twins recovered quickly, following him, and then he saw their strategy. Each twin positioned himself opposite the other, and directly at the periphery of Porthos’s vision. He silently cursed. He should never have allowed them to get into position, which put him at the worst possible disadvantage. He should have attacked one of them to throw them off balance. In fights such as these he was sometimes allowed to make only a single mistake, sometimes less, and he thanked his hindsight for being such a spiteful whore. 

The twins set upon him, and this would be a recurring theme, simultaneously. Because their timing was so precise, Porthos found he could only deflect one blow while dodging the other, and every time he moved, the twins followed in unison, dancing continuously outside his line vision, attacking when he wasn’t looking, and it was heavily disorienting to see one man appear to jump through space and time to appear at both sides of you, ducking and slicing at the same time. He could feel the rhythm of their movements, and that was his one saving grace, but when he lost it, he felt the warm rush of blood running down his left arm, followed quickly by sharp, throbbing pain, and though this did not disable him, it threw off his timing, and he immediately felt a blunt blow to the side of his knee, which should, if he knew their plan, be followed by a rain of continuous blows and cuts now that they had found an opening, because they were being delivered by two men acting as one. He fully expected that the offense would continue until he was stone dead. However, the finishing blows did not fall, they had retreated, and Porthos looked up into the smiling face of D’Artagnan.

“I cut him in the back!” D’Artagnan announced. 

“As well you should have.” Porthos brightened, and stood up. Oliver and his twin were both nursing gashes. On their backs. “Bind up my arm, and we will finish this.”

But other men were swarming in to fill the space, and soon both men were heavily engaged. However, these men served to block the men who followed, and who did not come armed with swords, but with muskets. 

Up above, even Henri was astounded. “Who ordered –” Henri looked at his sister, realizing his mistake. “Is this your doing?”

Her expression showed neither apology nor deference. “Yes. I have let you ruin two perfectly good young…boys. I have watched you play at leading, and that is enough. It’s time I ended this.” 

 

“They could still win!”

“You played Musketeers against men who lack experience in battle. You do not know your own hand.” She looked down to watch Porthos push back five men at once. “That large one is virtually indestructible.”

Then she continued, “these men all loved and respected you without question. Look at them now.” She gestured down at the scene below.

That is when Henri made a fatal error. He looked down at the men, fighting there, fighting on his behalf, really, and saw that they were losing. They were vastly outmatched, especially now that the second Musketeer had joined the first. 

“I befriended one of the women, Jeanne, I believe, is her name,” Marguerite said from behind him. “She has been very useful in helping me to draw up a map of the tunnels. She has also introduced me to many other of her people who can be similarly useful.”

He did not care a bit about the tunnels. He wanted to be a military man, a leader of other men, like his father. If it didn’t happen this time, he had the resources to try again. 

He watched his men dropping on the ground below, and felt nothing save a mild disappointment. Then he felt Marguerite lay a consoling hand upon his shoulder, a gesture which did not comfort so much as irritate him. He was going to tell her to take her hand away, when the offending palm moved quietly to his back, before pushing hard and shoving him off the balcony. As intended, the fall would not kill him.

Chapter Sixteen: The Reunion

In the midst of fighting, Porthos and D’Artagan found that the men around them had suddenly stopped trying to kill them, which in their experience meant that something much worse was on its way. They were not to be disappointed, because as the men around them parted, and the men further behind them stepped aside, four men carrying muskets, in close range, became visible. 

As our two friends watched, the four men prepared to fire, took aim, and then fell to their knees, landing on their faces to reveal Athos and Aramis holding their swords aloft and smiling with triumph, like devils.

“What are you doing here – and how did you find us?” This time Porthos beat D’Artagnan to ask the obvious question.

For a fuller response to this question, which is likely to be met solely with an enigmatic smile, the reader should consider a few possibilities. It is possible that Henri the Second’s parental origins were something of an open secret, which only the dignity and social station conferred by the Rohan name prevented from becoming outright gossip. It is possible that Athos made a connection between Oliver’s initial capture and the bored antics of a pampered nobleman who bore such similar features and who owned a rather large and ostentatious residence on the border of Paris. It is further likely that this inference, however correct, was not shared with our two friends who form the heart and brawn of this story. Finally, it is possible that Athos and Aramis had lain together - in wait - for their two friends to appear and in this way, to guarantee their safe passage out of the young Rohan’s grasp. 

In response to this query, Athos offered an enigmatic smile, knocked the sword immediately of the hands of the man on his right, and said nothing. Then men closed in on the four of them and slowly drew them away from each other, breaking them apart along natural lines, with Porthos fighting alongside D’Artagnan on the one side, and Athos and Aramis on the other. 

While fighting these lesser men, it occurred to our Hero that there had to be a way to end this. He could tell that he was not fighting among experienced men, and it did not feed his conscience to harm fighters of such a lesser caliber. Mid parry, he looked around to get a better sense of his surroundings, possibly something he should have done earlier, and saw a man watching him from a tower dressed in deep burgundy brocade. Even from this distance, he could see the red of the man’s hair, and the dark eyes, which reminded him of…well, a woman. When he looked again, he could make out the design of a simple flower, pinned to the man’s lapel, comprised of five symmetrical petals, before distraction in the form of a sword again claimed his immediate attention. Then the answer came to him. First, as breath, and then as a voice that came creeping up his shoulder before gliding smoothly in his ear, and settling deep into his subconscious until they could have been mistaken for his own thoughts.

This time, Athos chose to be direct. “We must kill the Anus of Hades,” his voice said, and then everything fell sweetly into place. As Porthos looked, Henri de Rohan appeared to leap from the height of his tower and land roughly onto the bushes below, where he emerged looking a great deal less regal and much more vulnerable. Each of the Musketeers in turn shouldered aside the man he had been engaging and made directly for this new development.

Henri emerged with a mouthful of leaves, gasping for air. The air had been completely knocked out of him, and landing on his own topiaries had not been a pleasant exercise, compounded as it was by the taste of betrayal. He looked up in a raging fury to meet Marguerite’s direct and unflinching gaze. Even this was a test on his resolve, and he was the first to look away. 

Then, to his left side, he could hear men approaching, but there was something inside him that told him that they would not be allies. He looked up to see four men moving casually towards him, and his own men parting to let them pass. From this distance, he could make out their faces clearly. One had the face of an Angel, while the man on his side had the expression of the Devil, there was a small, but that one…was really was not worth the bother of describing, and the large one brought up the rear. That larger one appeared two times the size of the Angel, and at least five times as large as his small friend. 

Henri could only stand there, transfixed, as the Musketeers approached him, and watch as the Porthos’s bulky form slowly eclipsed the sun until he stood entirely in the shade. Now, Henri could truly appreciate how large this man was, both tall and broad with a steadying amount of muscle in between. The expression on the man’s face was jovial, almost pleasant, which was also disconcerting. Henri unleashed his sword and wielded it, and found that his hand was surprising steady; he was, in fact, an excellent swordsman. However, he also knew these to be futile gestures, minor obstructions in the face of unassailable tides, the actions of a desperate man, because he knew, in his heart, that he was done. 

END

 

EPILOGUE

The days that were to follow would be a period of sadness and retribution. The remainder of the men, aching and bleeding, would take refuge under the sanctuary of Marguerite’s hospitality. Many would weep at the extent of their losses. However, none would weep so deeply as M. Treville on the day he received our Hero’s triumphant return. 

 

On the day in question, M. Treville, had managed to acquire, at great cost to his person, two seemingly identical drawings. He was currently engaged in comparing the two side by side in the calm candlelit twilight of his office, which was his custom. He enjoyed his solitary evenings, and found that he could work for hours without distraction. It was for these occasions that he saved the work that required his complete concentration and involved his most delicate artifacts, as was the case at present.

Treville studied the two to drawings placed in parallel. One was a current depiction of an expansive Paris residence, with its usual profusion of bedrooms and elegant drawing rooms, and crowned with a grand ballroom, of course. Treville grinned to himself. The second depiction was much the same, but this drawing was much older; the paper was thin and worn through with age, the ink lines very much faded. Treville had taken great pains to secure this particular drawing, and as of yet his efforts had not come to fruition. But there was something about this building that drew him, and although his instincts were not often wrong, they were not often clear, either. 

He aligned the two images on top of one another and held them up against the candlelight, so that both pages became transparent and Treville could manipulate and align the lines at will. In so doing, he traced each room, beginning with the northwest sector. Methodically, he would go through the entire building, room by room, line by line, until he found the discrepancy. It would not be obvious – they never were – or someone else would have made that discovery before him. No, there would be something very subtle and it would nag subtly at him over the course of days. Very rarely would his methodical inspections yield a solution on the instant, so he settled himself in for a long night, waiting for that light prickling sensation against his temple that would tell him that he had picked up on something. 

Hours passed in this way, with Treville’s steady fingers tracing patterns across paper acting as the only sign of life until… Ah, there, he had felt it, that pricking, against his left temple, his very intuitive left temple that indicated that he was about to embark on an important discovery. He began scanning the pages furiously; his eye had clearly preceded his mind in catching this distinction before he had even been consciously aware. But then the discovery announced itself; the door to his offices were flung wide, and a beaming Porthos burst into the room carrying a large sack of potatoes, which he immediately threw across Treville’s desk, ripping straight through both drawings, so that each page touched briefly against the candle and burst into flames before Treville’s horrified eyes. 

Treville could feel a tear swelling from the corner of his eye and reeled it back in by sheer force of will.

“I have found your anarchist!” Porthos announced, beaming in triumph. 

“You have found potatoes!” Treville responded, kicking the offending bag off his desk. He quietly noted that D’Artagnan had also crept into the office behind Porthos and was also smiling, for no discernable reason. 

From the ground, the potatoes let out a soft whimper. 

“What is this?” Treville demanded. Had they brought him a large dog?

“Open it!” This came from D’Artagnan, who apparently was hoping to see him bitten.

“This is an animal in a bag, not a present! Porthos, open the bag.” Treville pondered this. “If you must.”

Porthos opened the bag, and inside was a very pretty, very scared girl with her mouth and hands bound.

“You tied and bound a young girl and put her in a sack!” Treville was horrified. 

“Look closer,” Porthos prompted, but Treville was adamant.

“There is no need. Take this young girl and let her go someplace safe – ”

“It is the Duke of Rohan’s son, Henri de Rohan, the Second - the Rohan Bastard!” D’Artagan interjected. 

“This is not a man. This is…” but Treville hesitated. He saw the dark eyes, the matted red hair, the exceptional height of the girl if she – no, he – were to stand. Yes, he could see it now, it was indeed the Rohan Bastard. 

“Yes, this is a man. He is the head of the anarchists I sent you to look for? Is that so?”

“Yes, this is the one.”

“Why is he gagged?”

“He spits,” Porthos anwered.

“And he has exceptional aim!” D’Artagnan added, watching in apprehension.

“Fine then. Why is he bound?”

“He scratches.” D’Artagnan lifted his sleeve showed Treville several nasty gashes. Treville could easily picture how this had come about. Porthos would have grabbed the man by his torso, leaving D’Artagnan to deal with binding and gagging, hence the scratches and collateral spitting. Now he had to ask the most obvious question. 

“Why, then, have you brought him to me in a potato sack?”

The two friends looked at each other. Porthos opened the back a little further, and a lurid odor found its way into the room. The young Rohan had the grace to look ashamed. Treville backed away.

“Right. I will deal with this in the morning. Take that potato sack and throw it in a cell, and throw yourselves out!”

“Right away, Captain!”

“Yes, right away!” Porthos retrieved the Rohan sack and lifted it seemingly without effort. If Treville were not so thoroughly annoyed, he would have been impressed. They were almost at the door now.

“Porthos.”

“Yes?”

“I have lost count already how many times I have told you this previously. When you see a door, and this door leads to my office. Before you open this door, you take your right hand and lift it up, this majestic and magnificent hand, and you use it to knock at my door before you open it. Or better yet, you knock at my door, and then wait for me to receive you. Do you understand me?” 

“Of course!” Porthos replied. And Treville could tell from Porthos’ tone that the man had already forgotten what he had just been told. The man had a poor memory, the span of which would rival a guppy’s. He sighed and turned to look out his window, where he could barely make out the figures of the two retreating men.

After assuring himself that the two had indeed left his office and would not be returning, Treville sat down at his desk – he could not bear to look at the charred remains of his beautiful drawings – and laid out fresh ink and paper and began to write.

“My Dear Marguerite,” he began, “I am writing to you now to share with you my deepest condolences. Your suspicions regarding your friend have proven to be entirely correct. You acted admirably when you came to me with your concerns. Your friend is now in my custody, which is where he deserves to be, and I will use the greatest discretion to ensure that your privacy and that of your family are not soiled any further in connection with this matter. Your concerns will be treated as my own, but how you handle matters on your end, I will leave up to your better judgment. 

“Most sincerely,

“Treville.”


End file.
